


poetry in a seashell

by dreamyletters (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Post-Break Up, harry is a song-writer, louis' job is vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/dreamyletters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry is a song-writer going through loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	poetry in a seashell

**Author's Note:**

> i have a thing for poetry, i think this fic explain a lot of that.
> 
> 'shallows' - daughter  
> 'tsunami' by lang leav   
> begin again 
> 
> are the inspirations of this fic

 

 

_let the water rise, let the gound crack._

_let me fall inside, lying on my back._

 

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

 

harry remembers he was writing a song, and pressing the call button. he was pretty drunk, but he could remember the moment he heard  _his_  voice saying something along the lines of  _'leave a message after the beep'._ he was on the piano, a shot of bacardi left on the table attached to the wall, somewhere parallel to the couch. niall was on the guitar, and doing a bit of back vocals -or at least that's what it sounded like, since he was just as drunk. harry had his hair tied up and was singing his heart out;

 

_'is it too much to ask for something great?'_

 

he remembers that line pretty well. it started with a stupid conversation with niall because niall keeps asking him about how he's holding up. it's only been two months. he has an excuse for acting like this and being generally shitty. four years of being together felt like an eternity of undying love, stupid love songs and great sex. harry is allowed to whine.

 

"i mean, is it too much to ask for something... something great? i deserve that you know? i deserve that niall. i fucking deserve that."

 

niall sighs, takes the shot glass down to the table with a small thump.

 

"should've told  _him_  that before  _he_  opened the door to leave, mate."

 

harry slumps even further into his chair murmuring, "i thought  _he_  already knew.  _he_  knows me better than anyone. maybe i should've said it more clearly." he puts his arms on the table and drops his head with a groan.

 

niall then pours a shot in both their glasses. 'then do it. write a fuckin' song about it for all i care.'

 

harry looks at him -and for a moment, he looks like he wants to bang niall's head against the wall because that's a stupid idea. the alcohol in his system makes him start nodding though. he rips out a page from a nearby notepad and scrambles around for a pen. "yeah, yeah, yeah. i'm a fucking song writer, right? i'm a song writer. i'm gonna write it down, turn it into a song. pour my heart out and all of that crap. you're a genius niall. genius genius genius." he rambles and niall nods, chuckling a bit. he gulps down the shot in one swift motion. of course, what better fuel for a song writer than alcohol mixed with a broken heart.

 

 

where he got the idea to call him though, he can't remember anymore. it was probably the alcohol finally getting to his head. it was probably the itch on his fingers to dial the contact on his phone named, ' _do not call_ ' just to prove to himself that he could. it was probably his bitter bones clawing at him to just succumb to the truth that he misses  _him_  so fucking much already.

 

what happened the rest of the night, he just mutes. the smaller details didn't matter anymore.

 

 

_'you're all i want, so much it's hurting.'_

 

 

he remembers tasting salt water when he finished the song, even though he's miles away from the ocean. niall brings him back to himself for a second. everything turns into a blank space after awhile.

 

 

 

the day starts with that in mind.

 

he drops a slice of lemon in his glass of water, and eats what's left of yesterday's dinner. he should probably eat a banana or something to help with the hangover or maybe drink a bit of tea or coffee. his cellphone rings before he could get a chance to stand up though -he's kinda reluctant to get it at first, but he picks it up anyway.

 

it's zayn. everyone keeps calling him and it's not that he's annoyed -but, he hates feeling like he's some sort of kid moping about. he's okay,  _he's okay_. over and over, harry tells himself. he doesn't believe in god that much but, he says it like a prayer -like some sort of promise. he's okay and people need to stop asking all the time.

 

"hey, harry. sup? gallery show's tonight, hope you didn't forget. see you there, man." harry answers with the most polite grunt he could muster. he ends the call when niall finally stumbles awake.

 

"is that toast?"

 

harry lets him have both slices.

 

the thing is, when harry closes his eyes, it's not the hangover that's fucking him up. it's the fact that what he sees is the kitchen back in the flat he used to share with  _him_. it's the way there'll always be two cups on the counter and a kettle boiling up. by the time he's throwing in some cilantro in the omelette he's cooking, there'll be a pair of arms snaked around his waist and the back of his neck would be peppered with kisses. harry remembers he let the omelette burn that one time, just so they could fuck right there, against the counter with the early morning light gracing them.

 

when he opens his eyes, it's the old ratty kitchen of niall's flat he sees. it's not that he's complaining that it's old or ugly or anything. it just doesn't feel the same. he just wants to go back to the time that when he did open his eyes, it's the same face, the same place, the same name.

 

 

 

 

the gallery's kind of packed that night. full of zayn's friends and some people actually interested of buying zayn's art. harry's mostly just mingling a bit. there are familiar faces, and new ones. some of them smile warmly at him, some have that sad look he hates. it's just full of pity as if they know what happened. they don't even know harry or  _him_ , or the fact they were together. but, harry knows that's just him -overthinking and finding just some sort of unreasonable excuse for the ache of his bitter, bitter bones.

 

 

he keeps to himself for the most part of the night, until zayn pats him on the back.

 

"good to see you out of the rat hole, mate."

 

harry chuckles. he drawls out a 'hey'. "that's not very nice. don't let niall hear 'ya."

 

it's zayn's turn to laugh as he shakes his head. "nah, let 'im. a good mate needs to tell you off from time to time," there's a pause. zayn then quietly adds, "so, how are you?" the look on his face is similar to some people he's talked to tonight. harry kinda feels a bit betrayed -maybe even pissed. he shakes his head and looks down, then back at zayn. he's okay. how many times does he have to say it? he's alright. he's good. he's great. amazing even.

 

"i'm fine, really. stop asking me that all the time, mate." he tries a smile. zayn's face is unreadable for a few seconds -like he wants to retort, wants to say something else but, he lets it go. he smiles back. "can't help but be a little worried you know?" harry nods. right. maybe zayn has a a valid reason. harry has to understand because the first week after The Break was horrendous. he was literally holed up inside his room, barely going out. he had to promise niall he won't lock the door because niall swore to god  _'i'm gonna fuckin' call the queen if i have to harry, just to get you to pledge you're not locking your goddamn door.'_  and at one point, niall had to bring him to the hospital when he blacked out and zayn was so worried he almost just went and cancelled his gallery show that night.

 

"so, how are you? and liam?" harry asks and as if on cue, zayn rubs a hand behind his neck and he even flushes a bit, letting out a soft chuckle -almost a giggle to be honest.

 

"fine, we're fine. good even." he glances somewhere behind harry, finding the said man mingling with a few folks. he looks quite enthusiastic talking about the wonderful works of his boyfriend -or rather, fiance. zayn smiles at the thought. harry smiles at that too, following zayn's trail of sight. harry nudges zayn's shoulder.

 

"cute really. like a proper married couple," he coos. zayn laughs and shakes his head. "oh shut up," he says, shy all of a sudden. but his eyes tell that there is so much truth in that. the silver band around his finger tells a lot.

 

 

harry isn't jealous or anything. maybe just a tad bit -not that much. it's not like he has a similar silver band, meant with similar intentions, different designs, hidden in the old ratty shoebox he got from  _him_ during one of the birthdays harry celebrated with  _him_. he's outworn the shoes, and the box is completely littered with dust but he keeps it. he's forgotten about that -or that's what he reminds himself. irony is harry's forte it seems.

 

zayn goes off to greet other guests after awhile, which leaves harry pretty much wandering about in the gallery -sometimes alone or sometimes behind a small pack of people. he's got a champagne glass in one hand, and the other placed inside the pocket of his black ripped pants. he wanted to wear something a little more appropriate, but figuring it's zayn, he thought he wouldn't bother. he threw in a nice scarf though -maybe that'd compensate.

 

he stops in front an abstract painting of greens, blues and a bit of grays. harry feels drawn to it -not really sure why. honestly, it's just a mesh of colors but, it triggers a memory he'd rather not have remembered that night.

 

 

 

 

 

"look, just listen okay?"

 

_"okay, okay."_

 

...

 

_"harry..."_

 

"i know it's not much. it's just a stupid little song really, but i mean it. all of it. and well. this is pretty much my christmas gift to you because i'm so poor and my job sucks. so happy christmas."

 

_"shut up, it's brilliant. i love it. i love you."_

 

"and i love you."

 

 

 

 

harry closes his eyes, opens them and places the glass on a waiter's tray on the way to the fire exit. he tries to breathe, he tries.

 

 

(the ocean is miles away, and yet he drowns in the memory of the waves crashing on him -taking a piece of him with every curl and every drop.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

he wakes up, no mussle of hair choking him to death. no wrapped up body around his back or front. no annoying poking around his face to get breakfast ready. no nothing. he comes to himself and reminds himself again, for the 57th time, he's in niall's flat and currently sleeping in his guest bedroom.

 

harry curses the day but, at least he doesn't need to get up. he could just close his eyes again and sleep until two or something. it's not like he has to do anything today.

 

that's until niall knocks on the door.

 

"mate, door for you."

 

harry checks the clock -it's 9 am. he's not even sure who would ask for him at 9 am in the morning. he figures maybe it's someone from work or something -but he already said he's coming back in two weeks. was it another contract he needed to sign or something? he gets an old baggy sweater hanging on the chair by the foot of his bed and gets out of the room. he walks to the door, a little cautiously and swings it open.

 

 

it's gemma.

 

"hey," she says, and harry almost throws himself at her, if not only she threw herself first around him. she nuzzles her face to her brother's shoulder and rubs his back.

 

"it's been like, forever."

 

'gemma, why do i get feel you keep forgetting i go home like every two months or something'

 

"i know, but still feels like forever." she grins and allows herself to feel like a proper older sister. she's caressing harry's face and hugging him again, tighter this time. harry is so thankful for his sister. when he finally got the energy to tell her about The Break, she drove from cheshire to london in a beat and wrapped her arms around him. he's a lot taller than her but at that moment, he felt so small and protected that he believed everything was really going to be alright.

 

harry hums, "i missed you too."

 

 

 

they talk over tea about mundane things. how's work, how's life, how are you. the usual things. the usual things that harry's really getting tired of hearing honestly. because he's okay. he's alright and he's still harry. he hasn't changed just because  _he_  left.  _he,_  who harry can't even say the name becaue it feels like he's biting his own tongue every time he tries.

 

gemma holds him by the knee, and there's a look on her face that harry's trying really hard not to read as pity. but he gets it. gemma's just worried, she wants him to be really okay. not the okay harry keeps convincing himself he is. "did you guys talk already?"

 

"we've talked plenty," the morning hour gets to his voice -it's a little groggy and rougher than what it usually is. or maybe it's the pull in the pit of his stomach. the dragging misery that keeps him up at night and keeps him down in the morning.

 

"maybe not enough."

 

"maybe," he says, as if to say ' _i tried_ '. but he's too tired.

 

she holds him now by his cheek and smiles, albeit sadly.

 

"mum wanted to visit too, but she's got some work. you know her. busy woman, that."

 

he nods. "tell her i miss her even more. i'll try to visit more often, yeah? just need to," he pauses, he takes a shaky breath. "pick up my pieces."

 

gemma nods, and tells him she has to go, but not before hugging her little brother one more time. she says goodbye with a promise of going back again, some time soon. "hopefully with your own flat next time, h." she grins and then she's off. he hopes so too.

 

 

 

 

 

_"are you sure you want me to move in with you?"_

 

...

 

_"i'm the slobbiest, messiest, most horrible flatmate you could ask for!"_

 

...

 

_"alright i guess i'm not just a flatmate. but are you really sure? you're not gonna leave me right? just for being so messy?"_

 

...

 

_"are you an idiot of course i won't leave you harry. i won't. why would i? you cook me breakfast and clean up after me. baby, you're everything i need."_

 

 

 

 

(maybe not enough.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _he_  left on may twenty-three, around six in the morning. it's not like they've been fighting like how most people pictured a couple fighting. there were't any screaming or throwing things at each other or any of that. sure, they'd snap a little -but it would stop right there. it was the silence that got to them.  _he's_  already gotten  _his_  bags packed and harry hasn't slept at all.  _he's_  sitting on the edge of the bed, while harry's leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed. both of them are too tired, with sunken cheeks and red eyes.

 

"so that's just it?" harry starts, because  _he's_  got his lips pressed together. harry huffs, fighting the urge to cry out and yell. his voice is raspy, his eyes are tired and his heart is dropping too fast for his own hands to catch.

 

 _"louis,"_ harry whines. louis closes his eyes, clenches his fists then he lets go. he looks up at harry and shrugs. "what do you want me to say? harry, i already told you everything." harry winces and turns around, stomping to the kitchen and bracing himself on the counter. louis grumbles and stands up, following him.

 

"harry, just understand. some people just," louis bites his tongue -he hates saying this part. "just fall out of love." harry's face winces again -scrunching up in disgust, having to hear those words from the man he loves so, so much. louis raises his voice, "i mean, would you rather have me being half-assed to you? i can't do that to you, harry, i can't--"

 

harry turns to him sharply, eyes watering and voice cracking. "yes, louis," he snapped. harry's words sharp, like he's trying to etch every letter on louis' skin to remind himself of their promises, of their story, of their supposed 'happy ending'. "i would rather have you half-assed. i would rather have just a quarter, a tenth, even a miniscule amount of you, louis." he's taken all the words louis could say, then he turns. he couldn't even look at him anymore.

 

"you will always have a part of me, harry," is the last thing he hears, before the click of the front door echoes in the room.

 

 _and you have a part of me._ but harry is too tired, too full of everything he couldn't understand, to speak.

 

the room is too still for the whimpers and shaky breaths coming from the kitchen floor.  _you have so much of me._

 

 

 

(maybe too much.)

 

 

 

 

harry goes back to work the week after zayn's gallery show. his work buddies greet him back with pats on the back and small talk. he missed the studio, somehow. it's kinda like a second home -especially during those hectic weeks, when production's on full motion. the smell of coffee, cigarettes and high hopes fills harry's senses once again.

 

he smiles easier now -he's getting used to it. he could even feel himself, slowly picking up the lost pieces. he's given a lot, but he's found bits of himself he hid just in case he loses too much. which is good. he should always leave a bit for himself.

 

one of his mates call him out to one of the rooms. "hey man, it's nice to see you back. actually, we've got a new album we're trying to put together right now. wanna come and join in a bit? you can just write a song or something. don't wanna overwhelm you too much, yeah?"

 

harry's looks at the journal he'd brought with him, then he nods. "yeah, sure man. i've got a few songs here actually." the other man smiles, "that's great, come on then."

 

 

 

 

about four months later, ' _just a little bit of your heart_ ' gets included in ariana grande's album.

 

 

 

 

harry turns down niall to go out tonight. he's been hanging out with people more now, anyways, he's fine. niall asks him for an excuse of course, harry tells him he just really needs time to be by himself. listen to himself and all that spiritual crap -niall shrugs. "suit yourself," and leaves. harry huffs and goes to the kitchen. he prepares himself a nice meal, -just some pasta with a bit of olive oil, some prawns he bought earlier and a bit of spices to give it a kick. he opens a bottle of wine, pours himself a glass and takes out a book he bought the other week while he was out shopping with zayn and liam.

 

it's titled, ' _lullabies_ ' by lang leav.

 

he's always had this deep appreciation for poetry. always felt like he understood whatever the words were trying to tell him. maybe it was because he was some sort of poet himself, or maybe he just likes to fuck with himself. either way, with poetry at least, harry feels like another person shares the same pain he's going through. like the pain of losing someone, or losing your path or yourself. in one way or another, it speaks to him. or rather, it speaks for him.

 

he opens the book on a random page. he's flipping through a bit, reading a few passages, seeing the nice art that went along with the chapters. he takes note of a certain quote.

 

 

" _he swept in, like a tsunami, wave after wave, and i didn't stand a chance. all those warnings, all the things they tried to prepare me for -lost in an instant- to the enormity of what i felt_."

 

 

 

he drinks down half of the bottle and dreams of the ocean and its blue, blue eyes, drowning him through a tsunami that didn't seem to stop pushing him over, even after crashing down on him.

 

 

 

 

he wakes up -not sure what time it is, but his phone is ringing. his phone is ringing and it's probably niall asking him to pick him up. not bothering to check the caller id, he somehow presses the green button to accept the call.

 

the first thing that registers in his head is that, it's not niall.

 

it's too quiet, for one. there should be some sort of background noise of music or someone screaming or just, something. no one's really there -harry thinks at first, but he hears some sort of, breathing sound in the other end -but it's also not. it sounds like the ocean really -and with his phone on his ear, it's like listening through a seashell.

 

before he could look at the screen again to check who this is, a voice calls out.

 

"do you remember the beach we went to? on our second anniversary. go there. go there right now," is what the voice orders him to do. harry knows where that place is -remembers the nice smell of the ocean, and feel of the sand between his feet. remembers just having a nice day out, getting tanned up with louis while they enjoy the last few days of summer. it was great. the phone call ends before harry could ask why. he then puts down his phone and recollects on what just happened.

 

louis just called him to go to some beach they went to two years ago, which is about a two and half hour drive, to meet up.

 

the thing is, he's not obliged to do it. he doesn't need to, really. and not only because louis left him, but it's because they've officially ended things between them. and it's not like they'll magically be friends again, like what most 'relationship help' books say or what movies have to say about that. break-ups never work that way. slowly building your way again to becoming friends is a long, tedious process that required both of you to be emotionally, mentally and physically ready. harry thinks he's probably at least just one of those things but of course,  _of course_.

 

the parts of him -the parts of him screaming from the person he left them to, who's two towns over, god knows doing what in a beach at about 3 in the morning- is screaming for him. they're screaming for him to  _come, pick me up_. pick up the pieces you've left. face the shards of a past not yet ready to be what it is.

 

 

harry picks up a pair of trousers, a sweater, car keys and his phone.

 

 

 

 

harry finds him huddled about three feet away from the ocean. he took off his shoes and he's smoking a cigarette. the smoke wafts into the air as harry steps forward. he doesn't see the rock in front of him and he trips, just right beside louis actually. "o-oops," he splutters, now getting sand all over him. louis turns and laughs, breathing out smoke. "hi," he replied. he feels the part of his arm -where it's etched- ache, with the memory of how they met. cheesy, really. the first tattoos they got as a couple were the first words they ever spoke to each other.

 

it also aches with the fact, this might be the last they'll speak to each other this close.

 

harry notices the way louis' face are about three shades too tired, too pale against the rising dawn. his eyes are still red -and his cheeks look like they've been wet this whole time. there's a smile, across his mouth that usually, he could tell if it's happy, condescending, sarcastic or anything else, but this. this is a smile he didn't expect. it was sad. it was lonely. it wasn't. it wasn't a smile harry knew.

 

 

"why did you call me here?" harry asks quietly.

 

louis digs the cigarette to the sand, and looks at the sun, slowly rising up.

 

"i just know you like sunrises better than sunsets."

 

 

harry doesn't say a word. sitting up, he watches the sunrise with louis, and for a moment -he doesn't think about anything else than the fact,  _he's there_. he's there with louis. he's breathing, he's two inches away from louis and he's never felt anything more painful, than not knowing what sort of metaphor this fucking sunrise is. maybe it's finally the beginning. the beginning of inching away. of the space that'll soon be bigger, and bigger, and bigger until, they couldn't reach each other anymore.

 

but all of those thoughts all come crashing down, when he looks back at louis, who was watching him, the whole time.

 

his eyes are watering and he's looks  _so_  tired. "i miss you," he whispers, against the soft, crashing of the waves. harry gulps, vision getting blurry, throat suddenly too sore to speak. he decides his lips do a better job of showing instead of saying what he feels.

 

he kisses louis -but they're not slobbery, nor does he push too much. he pushes just enough, just enough to say ' _i miss you so much it's drowning me_ '. harry's holding louis' face with both hands and louis' clutching him around his sides. louis is kissing him back like it's poetry. he understands that louis is trying to tell him that he feels exactly the same as harry, right now. every inch of his bone is aching for him to come back. every corner of his soul is searching for it's other half like how a mad man seeks for solace.

 

louis kisses like a tsunami. everything finally crashes down on harry, but at least, this time, it does more good than damage.

 

 

they break off, they breathe, but they don't let go this time. they stay. they stay close, basking in each other's warmth and the taste of salt water in each other's lips. louis is the first to speak.

 

"your first song was shit, by the way. it just annoyed me. maybe it's because i felt guilty. maybe 'cause it made me really realize i was an asshole." harry caresses his cheek.

 

"and then i hear this other song. my mate was playing it from her laptop. she's apparently a fan of ariana. but, yeah. i hear this fucking song, and for some reason, i just knew you wrote that." harry wipes a tear off louis' cheeks with his thumb. "i mean yeah, maybe knowing she's under your label helped, but i just knew, okay? i knew you wrote that. suddenly, all i could hear was everything you said, half a year ago. and then i remembered your stupid-ass, drunk song and the song you gave me for christmas, and about ten other songs you wrote for me." louis stops because he's crying too much now. he's gasping for breath, and he's hiccuping a little. his head is bended down and harry's trying to pull him back up gently. louis finally looks up again.

 

"harry i heard the fucking song and all i could think about was how much i miss you."

 

 

harry surges forward to kiss him again. the kiss doesn't last as long as their first one. harry kisses louis' cheeks, his eyes, then his forehead. he looks deep into louis' eyes, and he smiles what feels like the first time.

 

 

"you know, there is a reason why i like sunrises better than sunsets."

 

louis, too dumbfounded by what seemed like the sudden change of subject, asks, "what?"

 

"reminds me of the fact that when a day ends," he stops for another kiss. eyes closed, he finally whispers against louis' lips.

 

"it could start again."

 

 

 

 ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

 

 

 

the sheets aren't familiar, but it feels all the same.

 

 

 

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////


End file.
